Sixty Feet, Six Inches

by Bob Gibson

There would be a better chance of a lucky guess against me, though, than against a pitcher like Juan Marichal, who throws four or five pitches at different speeds from different arm angles. With me, the batter can pretty much count on a fastball or slider. With Marichal, he can only count on getting something he’s not counting on.

  Reggie Jackson

  Against a guy like Marichal, you just go up there to hit what you see.

  Marichal threw about ninety-two, ninety-three miles an hour. He could make the ball run this way, make it run that way; he had a curve, a screwball, a changeup; he’d throw from over the top, from the side, with a big leg kick, with no leg kick at all. He’d be a classic see-the-ball-and-hit-it guy. But even with all that stuff and deception, the key thing was that he could put a good fastball where he wanted it. If I were to try to anticipate anything against Marichal, I’d look for a fastball away.

  The opposite of Marichal would be a pitcher who specializes in a particular pitch. When I was with the A’s in 1974, the Royals had a veteran, Lindy McDaniel, who gave us all kinds of problems with his good forkball. One game he pitched into the tenth inning, and the next time he beat us with a three-hitter. He had some other stuff, but the forkball was his out pitch. Still, every time he threw it we’d act like we were surprised. After that second game, he started against us again a few days later. I pointed out to the other guys that he’s got to come with the forkball and it’s always the same speed, so wait for it. Take it away from him. That time, we knocked him out in the third inning. Getting a pitch to hit is not an accident. It’s a plan.

  There was an occasion, again while I was with Oakland, when we were trailing Texas 2–1 with two outs in the eighth, runners on second and third. With two outs, there’s no such thing as a sacrifice fly or run-scoring groundout, so I had to make solid contact in that situation. And for that to happen, I had to get a ball I could handle. Steve Hargan was the pitcher, and he kept pouring in tough strikes that I couldn’t get the barrel on. I fouled off seven pitches until I got something I could work with. The result was a three-run homer. You could call it a case of stubbornness, I suppose, or maybe committed anticipation.

  Bob Gibson

  There’s no way I would have allowed that to happen. Not with first base open. Not unless I was more concerned about the next hitter, which I doubt was the case.

  I was rigid on that philosophy: The great hitters were not going to beat me. They were not going to get anything to hit, pure and simple. After our careers were over, Willie Mays once told me, “Man, when you pitched, I wasn’t worried about hitting you. Curt Simmons is pitching tomorrow, and I’m gonna get three.”

  That’s not to say I didn’t make some mistakes to the wrong hitters at the wrong times. But if I did, it was most likely against a guy whom I wasn’t too concerned about as far as hitting a home run.

  Tommy Davis of the Dodgers fit into that category. He was a terrific hitter, but not really a home-run hitter. At least, I wasn’t worried about him hitting a home run. Maybe I should have been. In 1961, at Busch Stadium, I hooked up with Sandy Koufax and it was 0–0 in the seventh inning when Davis came up. On a one-oh count, I threw him a fastball inside, which I always think is a bad pitch, and he hit a line-drive home run off the left-field foul pole. I’d been pitching him away, away, away, and then I came in on him one time and bonk, there it goes. I think he was just waiting for me to bring one inside, and I was still young and dumb enough to oblige him. A year later, in Los Angeles, I was pitching against Koufax again and this time it was 0–0 in the ninth inning when Davis came up. I thought, okay, this is familiar. There’s no way he can be looking for another inside fastball because I wouldn’t be that dumb. Well, I was. I came inside again on oh-and-one, and sure enough, there it went, another line drive off the left-field foul pole. It was a textbook case of overthinking. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

  Worse yet, I went against my better judgment. When I started winning big was when I stopped doing stuff like that.

  Reggie Jackson

  When I was facing a great pitcher late in a ballgame, and the ballgame was close, I’d try to get really focused on doing what I do best. That’s when it’s fun, because the great pitcher is doing the same thing.

  If it’s the eighth or ninth inning, with the game on the line, and Gibson can throw me three strikes on the inside part of the plate, I’m going to be an out. I would settle for that, because at that point in the game I’m holding out for something away. And I’m pretty sure Gibson’s going to give it to me, because that’s his strength, too. In that situation, we both want to go strength against strength. That’s the time to bet on what I’m capable of doing, not try to handle something in my weakness. So I’m letting the inside pitch pass and waiting to catch a ball in my power zone.

  Bob Gibson

  There’s a pretty good chance you might get what you’re looking for, too.

  Here’s how it goes. The first time I face a batter in a ballgame, it’s not necessarily that I’m trying to set him up or anything; I’m trying to establish my fastball and my control—in both my mind and his—because my fastball is my best pitch. My slider’s not much use if I don’t make the batter respect my fastball from the outset.

  So if Reggie comes up in the first inning and he’s batting third and there’s nobody on base, that’s the time for me to take charge, sort of assert my presence, and establish a foundation for how I want to pitch to him the rest of the game. But even if I do that successfully and he comes up later in the game in a spot where he can hurt me, I might change it up a little bit, because by that time I know what he’s looking for and he knows I know what he’s looking for. If he cheats or overcompensates or somehow changes his pattern of hitting, that’s when you have to adjust your way of pitching to him. Now, I doubt that he’d do that. Most of the home-run hitters will pretty much stick with what they do, because they’re looking to put the barrel on the ball with a big swing; at least until they get two strikes. You’ll find that the guys who hit singles and doubles are more likely to adjust to the way you pitch them. So you’ve got to change it up and move it around a little more with them. If a guy like Reggie would alter his approach, I’d feel like I’ve gained an advantage because I’ve taken him out of his game and turned him into a contact hitter. I’ve gotten him out of his comfort zone.

  But when it comes down to the key spot in the ballgame, I might just change the way I pitch him regardless of whether he’s adjusted or not. Say, for instance, I’ve decided to work Reggie with a lot of hard sliders in on him because I know he has trouble with those. Even if the inside pitch is his weakness, I don’t believe that I’d be throwing him many fastballs to that spot. The reason I’d throw him sliders instead is that with a slider I can make sure the ball gets in there. I mean way in there, from the corner in. The last thing I want to do is leave it out over to the plate to a guy as strong as Reggie.

  So I’m working him all night with sliders in. That’s my plan. Well, when we get to that moment of truth in the eighth or ninth inning and I’ve got nowhere to put him, I might say the hell with that. There’s a decent chance that, since I’ve pitched him inside all night, he might not be looking away. On the other hand, there’s also the risk that he’s given up on the inside pitch by this time and he’s holding out for something on the outside part of the plate that he can get the barrel on, since that’s his strength. I’m well aware of the risk, believe me. But at that point, I don’t care anymore. I’ve gotten myself into a spot where I can’t afford to care. I need a strike so badly that I might just go ahead and throw the ball out there where I know he can crush it if I make a mistake.

  The thing I’ve got going for me is the confidence that I’m not going to make a mistake. I think I can get him out that way because I believe in my ability to make a good pitch in a tough spot. I probably wouldn’t keep the ball out there every pitch—I’m stubborn, not stupid—but I certainly might add that to the discussion. When push comes to shove, you have to do what you do best
.

  Reggie Jackson

  When it comes down to strength against strength, the guessing, if you want to call it that, is out the window. There’s not much guesswork anymore.

  But I would have one advantage against Hoot. His strength is away, he’s confident away, and I want the ball away. I’m on the defensive when it’s oh-and-two, one-and-two, but if the count gets turned around and there’s no place to put me and it’s all out there on the line, I’m going to get what he does best. We both know that. Sooner or later, it’s going to be me against him, his strength against mine. Now I feel like, come on, let’s go.

  Bob Gibson

  Yep. Here it comes, ready or not. And it’s coming out over the plate, just like he likes it. If I have no choice but to throw a strike—and that’s the only excuse—I can’t be that concerned about location, other than just getting it over. I’m just trying to throw it down the middle, above the belt, with the best stuff I have. When my back is to the wall, it’s on.

  Here it is, buddy.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MECHANICS

  Reggie Jackson

  When I’m evaluating young players for the Yankees—young hitters—I see them roughly in two types. The first would be in the mold of a kid in our organization named Austin Jackson. He has very, very high motor skills—skills like Derek Jeter—and he’ll be a big-leaguer. Jackson had a full ride to Georgia Tech as a point guard, and he’s such a good athlete that he’s going to figure out how to get the bat on the baseball. With a guy as talented as that, you give him suggestions, counsel him, and then step back and let him adapt because he has the ability to figure it out on his own.

  We also had a somewhat younger kid by the name of Jose Tabata, whom we signed when he was sixteen and traded to the Pirates when he was nineteen. To me, Tabata’s the other prototype, a classic behind-the-ball hitter in the mold of Roberto Clemente, Tony Perez, Albert Pujols, and Manny Ramirez. I’m talking about the kind of guy who is not looking to pull a pitch into the seats but is always behind the ball, putting it in play. I’d put Jeter in that company, because he stays behind the ball as well as anybody, but he’s a little different in that he’s not a power hitter in the mold of those other guys. In that sense, he could be a good model for Tabata. Derek simply refuses to get off his plan and try to pull the ball. That’s the reason he has been so successful. But it’s something he’s had to consciously stick with, and that takes a lot of mental effort. In 2002, after hitting well over .300 for four years in a row, Derek was struggling a bit and came to me asking for input. My advice was to quit trying to hit the inside fastball. All he was doing on those was grounding out to third and jerking foul balls down the line. Jeter’s game is hitting line drives the other way. Pulling the ball made his swing a little tighter and took away his real strength. He eventually got back to doing what he does best and had another great season.

  For Derek, it’s all about being a “professional hitter.” His approach allows him to stay in the groove longer than most hitters because he does things right. Power hitters create more extension than Derek does, and he could hit for more power if he added extension, but there’s a trade-off involved with that. It makes you strike out a little more. Since Jeter doesn’t have the natural power that guys like Manny and Pujols have, and since he’s a smart hitter, he stays within his God-given gifts, which is hitting line drives—singles and doubles—with an occasional display of power. What he’s done better than the next guy is produce in the clutch. That’s mental makeup.

  When Jose Tabata was sixteen, his first thoughts were to hit the ball to right center. So he’s very seldom out in front, he very seldom rolls over the ball and taps a ground ball to shortstop or second base. He just has a natural feel for the game, the innate ability to do things that other players have to be taught and may never pick up. Pitchers look at a guy like that and see a tough out, a tough guy to pitch to, because he’s not trying to pull every ball out of the park. He’s not creating weaknesses for himself. He does things that I view as gifts, things that tell me this guy has a real chance to be a hitter.

  Of course, the great players are the ones who have both the athletic ability and the grasp of the game. Both of those things are gifts. That’s what you saw in Mays and Clemente and Aaron, and what you see today in hitters like Jeter, Pujols, Ramirez, and Alex Rodriguez. They combine physical talent with the ol’ noggin.

  There aren’t many of those guys.

  Bob Gibson

  You could categorize pitchers the same way. The pure athletes would be the hard throwers, and then there are the guys who just have a touch, like Maddux or Tom Glavine or somebody like Jamie Moyer, who seems like he can pitch forever on brains and moxie.

  People might argue that finesse pitchers get by without the natural ability of guys like Nolan Ryan or Roger Clemens or Randy Johnson. I’m not sure I’d go along with that. To some extent, control is a natural ability, too. Some pitchers naturally throw better curveballs than other pitchers, or better changeups. The feel for the game is a natural ability. Reggie described it as “innate,” and that’s a good way to put it. Some guys are athletes and others are just ballplayers. Put the two together and you’ve really got something.

  Reggie Jackson

  You can teach somebody to be a better hitter, but you can’t teach the ability to hit to a guy who can’t. He’s just not going to hit. Now, a guy who’s a good ballplayer but can’t hit can end up as a pitcher. That’s a lot more common than somebody like Rick Ankiel converting from a pitcher to a hitter. That’s rare.

  But certainly you need good hand-eye coordination to do either. Hand-eye coordination is perhaps the most critical thing for hitting.

  Bob Gibson

  Hand strength is very important.

  Reggie Jackson

  All good hitters have big, thick hands.

  Bob Gibson

  Pretty much. Mays is not a big guy, but you ought to look at his hands. Big, thick hands.

  Reggie Jackson

  Johnny Bench is another one.

  Bob Gibson

  The only real good hitter I can think of with small hands was Stan Musial. Little bitty hands. But you couldn’t find a better hitter.

  Reggie Jackson

  So much of it is timing. Not all power hitters are built like Ryan Howard or Albert Pujols. Ken Griffey Jr. was thin when he was young and hitting home runs. Aaron wasn’t a big guy when he was young. A slender player can hit a ball a long way with coordination, good timing, and strength in his hands.

  You see it better when you watch the golf swing of a skinny person who drives three hundred yards. Michelle Wie is a young, thin girl, but she’s six feet tall and has a long arc to her swing. And timing. Tiger Woods is a big person, but it’s obvious that with torque, timing, and strength in his hands he gets the maximum out of his body. If Tiger Woods or Michelle Wie were baseball players, they’d be power hitters, because of their timing.

  A guy who hits for power just looks different when he swings the bat—different than a guy like Jeter, who has a good swing, an athletic swing, but one with an arc that is clearly not the arc of Manny Ramirez.

  Bob Gibson

  Studying the golf swing gives you a pretty good idea of how hard it is to hit a baseball. Hitting requires the same kind of timing and rhythm and hand-eye coordination, but then add to that the quick-twitch ability you need to hit a ninety-five-mile-an-hour fastball, and the reactions you need to handle the dramatic changes from pitcher to pitcher and even pitch to pitch, and the mental dexterity you need to process all the strategic considerations that pile up constantly.

  Another difference is eyesight. Good vision is extremely important to hitting. Joe Torre’s eyes were so strong that he’d be talking about something going on out in center field—a light or a disturbance or whatever—and I’d have no idea what he was seeing out there.

  I was a good hitter for a pitcher, and I even pinch-hit a few times, but I wasn’t a good hitter because I didn’t have
the eyes to see the rotation on the ball. I’m not sure you have to see the rotation to be a good hitter, and I’m not sure all good hitters can—Torre could, and Ted Williams certainly could—but it helps. When the ball comes out of the pitcher’s hand, you see two dark lines coming at you, and if they’re straight up and down there’s a pretty good chance it’s a fastball. There’s a possibility it could be a breaking ball, but if you see the rotation going sideways you know it’s a breaking ball. I couldn’t pick that up.

  I had no idea what my eyesight was, but I’ve been wearing glasses since I was nineteen. The problem was, I sweated so much when I pitched that I’d have to take a rag out of my pocket to wipe my glasses off, and then they’d smear and I couldn’t see at all. So I left them in the clubhouse.

  Reggie Jackson

  People assume my eyesight was bad because I wore glasses when I played. Actually, it was twenty-twenty with my glasses off, twenty-ten with them on. I needed glasses to correct my astigmatism. I suppose I could have played without them, but I struck out enough with my glasses on.

  As a hitter, eyesight is not something you can afford to shrug off. In my estimation, there’s no such thing as a good hitter who can’t read the spin on the ball. You’ve got to be able to read spin. You’ve got to read it right away, as soon as the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand.